


A Single Flower

by xosadie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, Sad, Sad John, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:02:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xosadie/pseuds/xosadie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Right up until the very end, there were always two sides to Sherlock Holmes. And John loved both of them. But if only he had realized the depth to which Sherlock’s demons haunted him, been a moment quicker, a bit cleverer. Smarter, faster, better.</p><p>Maybe he could’ve saved him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Single Flower

There is a thick film of dust in the air. It floats around, disorienting and constricting, making each breath John takes that much more difficult. Every once in a while, when he stirs in his chair, or lets out an unusually large sob, the dust will poof, suddenly aware of the sad presence that lies dormant in the room.

Two months.

Eight weeks.

1,344 hours.

And he feels every moment of the passed time like a knife to the chest, pushing and twisting, slicing deep into his flesh. A pain that demands to be felt.

John squeezes his eyes shut, willing, pleading, begging it all to go away. But it is useless. It is always useless. The image is tattooed onto his lids and no amount of tears can wash away the ink.

_Falling, falling, impossibly far, falling until it didn’t seem possible for him to fall anymore._

_And then, in the blink of an eye, he just stops._

_“Sherlock!”_

A constant loop. A movie on repeat for the rest of eternity. Morning, day, night. He prays for it to stop, for it to just _stop_. But it never does. And after a while, John wonders if it is some sort of punishment, for not realizing what he should’ve before it was too late. For ignoring his feelings, pushing them away until they were impossible to reach again, and in the process, pushing Sherlock away as well. The girls, the clipped, too-forceful remarks ( _“I’m not his date.”_ ). And he sure was a good actor, too good for his own sake, because after a while, he started to believe the relentless facade; latched on to that persistent voice in his head. And it wasn’t until he watched him step off the roof, watched the black blur cascade towards the concrete, that John realized he loved him.

So this, this eternal, unending remembrance, became his cross to bear. His life sentence.

To remember. And to realize, every day for the rest of his life, that he’d never said those three important words to Sherlock... and that he’ll never be able to.

There is the sound of a door clicking shut in the distance, deafening in the complete silence that is 221B Baker Street. It is probably just Mrs. Hudson, flitting about, rushing to and fro with whatever it is she gets up to lately. They haven’t spoken since that day at Sherlock’s grave. John had walked straight up those stairs into the flat, locking the door behind him, not daring to look back. And he never came out again. Every Monday morning, like clock-work, there would be the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a bag of groceries would be waiting for him on the doorstep.

Mondays are the only days he gets up from the chair.

His clothes hang on his too-small frame, his body thinner than Sherlock’s had ever been. The thought crosses his mind that if he keeps up this pace, he’ll wither away into a skeleton right in this very spot. And it occurs to him, with a blow to the chest, how much Sherlock would love solving that case: the case of John Watson.

A skeleton that never moved. Just slowly fell apart until it was nothing at all.

John imagines Sherlock, alive, breathing, his long fingers working over his bones as he inspects. The trusty magnifying glass, the boyish glint in his eye as he observes and catalogues every inch of John. 

John, the dead one. The way it should be.

And Sherlock. The great, mighty Sherlock Holmes. The enigmatic, egotistical show-off who blew into John’s life without a chance to breathe. Who locked himself within John’s heart with such stealth and grace that not even John himself noticed. Sherlock, the man that John admired and adored.

Sherlock. The tragic, broken Sherlock Holmes. The man with hidden demons, pain cleverly disguised ( _“No one could be that clever.”_ ) by arrogance and bluster. The one who shattered John’s life with the blink of an eye and left him alone to pick up the pieces. Sherlock, the man that John yearned to fix, to understand.

Right up until the very end, there were always two sides to Sherlock Holmes. And John loved both of them. But if only he had realized the depth to which Sherlock’s demons haunted him, been a moment quicker, a bit cleverer. Smarter, faster, better.

Maybe he could’ve saved him.

And John does save him. Not when it counts, of course, but every day and every night. In his dreams, he does it right this time.

And in his dreams, Sherlock doesn’t jump.

John squeezes the armrest of his chair, a slow, careful rhythm. _Clench, release. Repeat._ He doesn’t know when he started doing this, this nervous tick. All he knows is that he can’t stop. It calms him somehow. With each constriction, he feels the upholstery mold between his fingers and for that moment, he is in control.

The light outside streams through the window, half-shielded by dusty curtains. It casts an array of oranges and reds and yellows across the flat. The warmth of the colors disturbs John, out of place and unwanted, and he wishes it was nighttime. But he knows that the moment the light fades and the sky turns black, he will beg for morning.

In times like these, there is no solace in the dark.

He closes his eyes and tries to focus on his breathing.

When he opens them again, it is dark outside. The room is a charcoal grey, filled with shadows and memories never-forgotten, and he can hear the echo of Sherlock’s violin in the empty crevices.

John stares straight ahead at the wall and tries to forget. His eyes move slowly over every inch, memorizing, calculating. Still, it all blurs into a mess before him and after a while, it is impossible to distinguish where one thing ends and another begins.

But in all this emptiness, this paralyzing, complete limbo, there is one thing John sees. One thing he observes:

Sitting on Sherlock’s table, isolated and alone, is a single flower in an empty vase. Wilted and broken, lost without its source of life.

John watches the petals fall, day by day, and envies the beauty in which it dies.

**Author's Note:**

> It is from the very bottom of my heart that I say thank you for reading. I really enjoyed working on this short piece and I found exploring John's mind space post-Reichenbach to be very cathartic in a way. Hopefully you enjoyed it, and if you did, please leave a comment as feedback is always appreciated. Much love & thanks.


End file.
